Cheshire Murders

By Alan Hayhurst

Some of the gruesome cases in this book are better known than others, such as the inexplicable shooting of his wife and two daughters by Lock Ah Tam in 1926 and the Gorse Hall murder in 1909, which still excites afictionados of true crime and those who like a good unsolved mystery. Others are less well known, including the mysterious murder of Mary Malpas in 1835 and the crime of Frederick George Wood in Bramhall in 1922, a classic example of the pointless murder, for little or no reward, while few outside the town have ever heard the tale of the 'Congleton Cannibal.' All manner of murder and mystery is featured here, and this book is sure to be a must-read for true crime enthusiasts everywhere.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The History Press
• Release date: Feb 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9780752484150

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INTRODUCTION

The county of Cheshire has a long and honourable history and like many others has changed its boundaries frequently over the years, although all the cases in this book have a real connection with the county. Mainly agricultural, there are few large centres of population, which at first sight makes it a poor subject for a true crime history; but as I carried out my research, I quickly came to realise that Sherlock Holmes was correct when he told Dr Watson, ‘It is my belief, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys of London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.’

Some of the cases in this book are better known than others, such as the inexplicable shooting of his wife and two daughters by Lock Ah Tam in 1926 and the Gorse Hall murder of 1909, which still excites aficionados of true crime and those who like a good unsolved mystery. Lesser-known cases include the mysterious murder of Mary Malpas in 1835 (my theory about who really did kill young Mary at Doddington has, I think, not been seen in print before) and the crime of Frederick George Wood in Bramhall, 1922, a classic example of the pointless murder, for little or no reward. Finally, few outside the town have ever heard the tale of the ‘Congleton Cannibal’.

In order to ensure that the facts are as accurate as possible, I have spent many hours in the National Archive at Kew and the Record Offices of Chester and Liverpool, poring over depositions, transcripts and other documents, and struggling to read the pages of contemporary newspapers, many of which boast print sizes so small that they defy all but the largest magnifying-glass. Lastly, I have tried not to put words into the mouths of the people concerned, unless I have been able to confirm them from sources mentioned above.

1

THE CONGLETON CANNIBAL

Congleton, 1776

The church of St Peter, Congleton, situated on a ridge to the south-west of the modern town centre, is a fine example of eighteenth-century design. Almost opposite, a small street named Priesty Fields runs down to a valley, in the bottom of which is a small stream known as the Howty Brook. A path runs along the banks of the brook, connecting Congleton to the village of Astbury, just over a mile away, where stands the church of St Mary, historically the mother church of Congleton and one of the finest parish churches in Cheshire. The locals have used the Howty Brook path to travel between the two townships for centuries and the path is still there today, in places overarched by trees and no doubt looking much as it did 200 years ago. The brook itself seems innocuous, being much overgrown by vegetation, but in bad weather it was formerly prone to flooding causing, as Robert Head wrote in his Congleton Past and Present, ‘much destruction of property’.

Among the parishioners of Astbury St Mary’s in 1776 was Samuel Thorley, aged 52, a large, rough man of limited intelligence and short temper, whom the local people preferred to leave very much alone if they could. A newspaper of the time, the Chester Courant, said of him, ‘In general, he was looked upon as a man of furious temper and dangerous to affront, or banter.’

Thorley worked as gravedigger at St Mary’s, and to eke out his meagre existence he was also a part-time butcher in Congleton. He was said to take a great delight in his butchering trade and it was rumoured that he had also developed a taste for raw meat, although this could have had more to do with his lack of money than any appetite for blood. On occasion he was known to sleep rough, but when he could afford the rent he lodged with Hannah Oakes, a widow who lived in a small, tumbledown thatched cottage near the Howty Brook.

On Saturday 23 November 1776 a local farmer, Newman Garside, was herding his cows into a field alongside the brook and, having settled them, walked down to the stream to enjoy a pipe of his favourite tobacco. Two young boys were with him, and one of them, 13-year-old William Barrett, noticed what appeared to be a woman’s cloak, made of blue material, floating in an eddy near the bank of the stream.

Path between Congleton and Astbury. (Author)

He pointed this out to Garside, who encouraged the lad to risk a ducking and retrieve the cloak, which he did with some difficulty. Hidden underneath it in the water was another garment, which young William also retrieved. Dumping both pieces of cloth onto the bank, he stretched them out. The second piece, yellow in colour, bore several reddish stains; and although these meant nothing to the boy, his employer thought he knew a bloodstain when he saw one and examined the garment closely. Satisfied that he was right, and seeing two farm-hands in the adjoining field, he gestured for them to come over.

Humphrey Newton and John Beswick ran down to where Garside stood, holding the wet cloth. ‘It looks like blood’, he said, rubbing his fingers against the stains. The two farm-hands were not immediately convinced, but urged on by Garside they joined the two boys in searching the area and in a short time they had discovered quite a collection of articles, including a cap; a black ribbon; a small bag, which held a half-eaten brown loaf, an old tobacco box, a thimble and a pair of scissors; two song sheets; a sewing bag containing needles and thread; and a woman’s petticoat. Suddenly, John Beswick exclaimed in horror as he stared into the stream and saw what appeared to be human limbs floating in the water.

Garside immediately sent the two boys scurrying to fetch the local constable, John Martin, who soon came running down to the brook followed by a crowd of curious villagers. Once Garside had stuttered out his story, Martin organised a more thorough search, which quickly produced more human remains, including a head that was obviously female and a woman’s breast. Whoever had cut up the dead girl’s body had made a thorough job of it; but even so, the remains were soon identified as belonging to Annie Smith, a girl in her early twenties. Annie scraped a living by selling ballad sheets, which were popular as a means of entertainment at the time, and also, it was rumoured, was not averse to selling herself to those who could pay a few coppers for the privilege.

The following day, Sunday, the remains were retrieved from a local barn where they had been placed overnight, and the local inhabitants crowded round to view the grisly findings, which even with decomposition rapidly setting in were still recognisable. A grave was dug at Congleton St Peter’s and the remains were hastily interred, after which an inquest was held and promptly suspended sine die.

A local weaver, Thomas Cordwell, while walking near the Howty Brook that morning had passed three men talking, one of whom he had recognised as Samuel Thorley. The gravedigger and part-time butcher had appeared agitated, and Cordwell had heard him insisting in a loud voice to his companions that he had known nothing about the murder until the body parts were discovered. This set Cordwell thinking; and he was still pondering the subject when he arrived home for lunch, where his wife was waiting to tell him the latest gossip.

St Mary’s churchyard, Astbury, where Samuel Thorley acted as gravedigger. (Author)

The Howty Brook, Congleton. (Author)

The whole town was agog with the events of the past two days and the popular view placed Samuel Thorley at the top of the list of suspects for the terrible crime, although, as is usually the case with gossip, facts were scarce and most of it was tittle-tattle and rumour. It was really nothing more than Thorley’s bad temper and his rough skill with a butcher’s knife that had prompted the villagers to point the finger of suspicion at him, but Cordwell continued to mull over the morning’s events, becoming more sure in his own mind as the day went on that Thorley had indeed got something to do with the death of Annie Smith. He decided to look for Thorley, in order to examine him for traces of blood. However, the suspect was nowhere to be found, so together with a friend, Thomas Elkin, Cordwell went back to the Howty Brook. While walking along the bank, they saw what appeared to be bloodstains on a stile over a pathway that led to Hannah Oakes’s cottage. Hannah was standing at her door as the two men approached and they stopped to tell her about the bloodstains. The old woman replied by saying that for the past five days Thorley had been lodging with her. On the evening of the murder, he had arrived home wearing his butcher’s apron, in which he was carrying some meat that he claimed had been given to him in exchange for his butchering services, when a pig belonging to a local farmer had died suddenly. He was soaked through and in reply to his landlady’s questioning explained that he had fallen into the Howty Brook on his way home, but luckily had been able to prevent the meat from being swept away by the swollen stream.

Thorley had asked the old woman to boil the meat immediately, but Hannah had already prepared something for the evening meal and had stubbornly declined to do any more cooking that day, despite Thorley’s obvious displeasure.

The next evening, 21 November, Thorley brushed the old woman’s objections aside and boiled the meat himself, Mrs Oakes commenting that it looked a bit ‘off’ to her and that she would eat none of it. Her lodger sat down at the table with a bowl of the meat in front of him and started to wolf it down, but he had barely got through the first mouthful when he rushed to the door and was violently sick outside. Returning, he told her brusquely to get rid of the rest of the meat as it was unfit, but despite her own initial misgivings and Thorley’s sickness, Mrs Oakes could not bear to see ‘good’ food thrown away and she decided to boil some of the meat for fat, keeping the rest of it in the cold oven. It beggars belief that Hannah should have kept the remaining pieces to eat later, especially since the previous boiling had obviously not prevented the meat from rotting, but it has to be remembered that in the eighteenth century rotten meat was the norm for most poor people, who had to manage with whatever food they could scavenge.

Now thoroughly alarmed, Thomas Cordwell asked to see what was left of the meat and, to his horror, noticed that one piece looked remarkably like a human calf. Hannah Oakes’s face turned ashen. ‘He told me it was pork!’ she cried. The old woman was more than willing for Cordwell to take the meat away and he immediately took it to the police, who called in a doctor to examine it further. The doctor had no doubt that this was human flesh, and matched the pieces that had already been found.

The inquest on Annie Smith was hastily resumed and this new evidence was put before the court, Mrs Oakes then testifying that Thorley had told her that he was going to pick up the pay that was owing to him and was going to Leek, some 10 miles away, claiming, ‘They are laying the charge of murder on me.’ This was enough to induce the jury to bring in a verdict of murder against Thorley and a further search was made, the fugitive eventually being discovered in a cottage at School Lane, Astbury. Constable Martin promptly arrested him and took him off to the cells at Congleton Town Hall, from where he was taken next day to Chester, to await trial.

In those days, judges visited the county only twice a year, and so the unfortunates on remand had often to wait anything up to six months in the dripping wet cells underneath the Chester Castle walls, with little light and no heat. Although there were two beds in each cell, there could be five or six prisoners to share them, so that three or four often had to sleep on the stone floor. No doubt Samuel Thorley, at this stage legally innocent until proved guilty, used his weight and his rough ways to ensure that he was one of the fortunate two with a bed!

The trial took place before Mr Justice Moreton on 3 April 1777. Thorley was apparently overcome by his position: understandably, four months’ incarceration had done nothing for his physical and mental state and he made little or no attempt to put up a defence, being unable, according to the law of the day, to give evidence on his own behalf under oath. The jury had no difficulty in finding him guilty, and he was sentenced to be hanged and then displayed in chains on the gibbet. The sentence was carried out on 10 April and a month later the tarred and manacled corpse was exhibited near Priesty Fields for the amusement of the community, who took the opportunity to have a field day, the boys from the local Grammar School being given a special half-holiday to view the spectacle!

The Chester Courant reported that Thorley had shown ‘no remorse for his terrible crime and met his death with indifference’. In the local taverns, the inhabitants of Congleton regaled themselves for many weeks afterwards with tales of the ‘Congleton Cannibal’; there were even some who claimed to have purchased pieces of ‘pork’ from the executed man.

More than 100 years later, Robert Head noted in his Congleton, Past and Present, a valued copy of which is kept in the Congleton Museum, that ‘Samuel Thorley, a butcher’s follower at Congleton, was executed at Chester for the murder of Ann Smith, a ballad singer aged 22’, and went on to say, ‘It will never be known what led to the horrible fate of Ann Smith.’ However, Head does venture to suggest that the young ballad-singer had stolen a knife from Thorley, which he had used to kill her after chasing her along the banks of the stream.

In the Register of Burials for St Peter’s Church, possibly many years later, someone wrote after the name of the dead girl, ‘A woman that was murdered by Samuel Thorley’.

St Peter’s, Congleton, where Annie Smith lies in an unmarked grave. (Author)

2

DEATH IN THE DINGLE

Lymm, 1798–1901

The church of St Mary stands on an elevated position above the township of Lymm, a few miles from the bustling market town of Altrincham. The rector in 1797 was the Revd Peter Egerton Leigh, who was also the Archdeacon of Salop and a member of an old and respected family in the area. Down the hill, a few hundred yards away from the church, was the rectory, a substantial black and white house in which Egerton Leigh lived with his wife, Theodosia, and which was perched on the side of a deep ravine known locally as ‘The Dingle’. This valley was well planted with specimen trees, through which tumbled a lively stream emerging at the ‘Lower Dam’, which today still makes a pleasant feature in the centre of Lymm village, only yards away from the ancient Market Cross.

Egerton Leigh lived in some style, and was able to employ several servants including a butler, John Thornhill, a popular young man in the village, born in the Cotswolds in 1769. John was a tall, good-looking young man, proud of his position, who always took great pains to dress well. However, he was not over-endowed with brains and could be inclined to violence if people did not offer him the respect to which he felt he was entitled. He had been at the rectory for some seven years and was engaged to be married to Mrs Egerton Leigh’s maid, Rebecca Clark, a liaison which met with the wholehearted approval of his employers.

On the face of it, John and his Rebecca had a lot to look forward to – secure, relatively well-paid jobs, good accommodation and a certain position in the local community which could stand them in good stead, should they ever decide to move on. It is therefore a puzzle why, in the spring of 1797, John should have allowed himself to jeopardise all this by getting involved with a local woman, Sally Statham. Sally took in washing to make ends meet and had two children, a son John, aged 13, and a much younger daughter. Additionally, she was twenty years older than Thornhill and was described locally as ‘large and lusty’, a description that fitted her to a tee.

The old cross at Lymm, which John Thornhill would have passed many times. (Author)

Lymm church and Upper Dam. (Author’s collection)

It was not possible to keep such a liaison secret in the small community, especially when the rector’s butler enjoyed such a high profile, and rumours soon began to circulate. In the early summer, the rector, his family and the servants went to Lichfield, where Egerton Leigh had church duties to perform, and by the time they returned, in October, the news was out that Sally was pregnant and that John Thornhill was the father. One of Rebecca’s ‘friends’ could not wait to tell her the news as soon as she returned, and the poor girl, overcome with shame and the possible loss of her fiancé, faced up to Thornhill and a terrific row ensued. Thornhill denied being the father of